Carl Sandburg

(6 January 1878 – 22 July 1967 / Illinois)

The Shovel Man - Poem by Carl Sandburg

On the street
Slung on his shoulder is a handle half way across,
Tied in a big knot on the scoop of cast iron
Are the overalls faded from sun and rain in the ditches;
Spatter of dry clay sticking yellow on his left sleeve
And a flimsy shirt open at the throat,
I know him for a shovel man,
A dago working for a dollar six bits a day
And a dark-eyed woman in the old country dreams of
him for one of the world's ready men with a pair
of fresh lips and a kiss better than all the wild
grapes that ever grew in Tuscany.


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Read poems about / on: kiss, woman, rain, dark, sun, world, women, work, dream



Poem Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003



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